


The Fall Of The Eleventh

by impossiblesongs



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Regeneration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblesongs/pseuds/impossiblesongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know I told you not to wait up,” he says, “I’m glad you did anyway.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall Of The Eleventh

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These are not my characters. This has been a disclaimer.  
> AN: Matt’s regeneration is coming soon and I have River related feelings about it that cannot be hushed, so here’s this little story in my need for 11/River closure. Hopefully it’s somewhat enjoyable.

 

He’s regenerating. The fall of the Eleventh.

 

_“If you ever loved me, say it like you’re coming back_.” River had said, the last he’d saw of her.

 

He’s coming back, number Twelve it is. But _this_ fall… this fall is going home. Not quite on time, but is he ever?

 

It doesn’t feel like dying. Not this time. There isn’t the sudden adrenaline towards a new beginning, no molding of a new person. There is a finality with this face and he’s grateful.

 

“We’ve been waiting for you.” Doctor Moon greets. Cal smiles at him and take his hand. His hearts are beating in kind, calm remarks. Regeneration means bearing his valves being torn and reborn and it leaves scarring every time. Every new life adds onto him a new death in return. Which outweighs the other, he never worked out.

 

“Past to future and back again,” Her voice carries from a few doors down.

 

“Those who run with the Doctor never truly stop running.”

 

Cal sprints off and reaches the door before he does, grinning back at him before she steps inside.

 

She’s reading from the blue book, hands stroking the cover much as how he strokes his Tardis. She’s turned away, her back faced to him. Her curls are longer than he’s ever seen them. He leans against the doorframe and watches her go on.

 

“It’s like reading a book but all of the stories come to life. Some can be rewritten, but not all the time.”

 

The children around her giggle, bright little dreamers.

 

“Every paragraph, every space, every blemish matters. A good book always has a beginning and so it must always have an end, but stories long gone can last for ages. A good story is never ruined or dampened by the amount of time it lasts.”

 

He can hear her sadness, her loss.

 

“Stories are all we have in the end, all we are.” River continues, “Though it’s sad when it’s over…”

 

“Nothing ever really ends.” He interrupts. “Not really.”

 

She goes stiff, reluctant to turn. To look back and see nothing. To be disappointed.

 

She looks over her shoulder and her breath catches at the sight of him.

 

“Hi, honey.” He smiles softly and she rushes into his arms. Every curve fits against him just right. The way her hand curls around the nape of his neck and her fingers thread though his hair make him tremble. Emotions he’s held back take him over completely. It’s real, it’s her.

 

The extent of how he’s _missed_ her had been locked away. Running away as he does didn’t work so well at first but then came Clara. His Clara had blessed him again and again with life and death and life again.

 

“I know I told you not to wait up,” he says, “I’m glad you did anyway.”

 

“Waiting happens to be a family trait, sweetie.” River whispered against his neck.

 

His chest constricts with longing, his hearts had wanted for her so long they’d exhausted a purpose.

 

He’s glad _he_ didn’t wait until it was over. Until he was completely done and his lives ran out. He was with new life outside of the Library, with Clara, as he should be. This life and this face may have been the first Clara saw, and though he loved her dearly, she was not his first. No. Not this face, not this life. They belonged to another. Three of them actually, if accuracy be needed.

 

To Amy.

 

To Rory.

 

To River.

 

He kisses River tenderly and pulls back to properly look at her, her face in his hands much as he’d done at Trenzalore. “I’m sorry I’m late, dear.”

 

A distraught laugh wretches itself from her chest. It cracks with emotion, her eyes teary and smile quivering. “Better late than not here at all, my love.”

 

He let his eyes fall shut and familiarizes himself with her presence again. The feel of her body pressed against his in an embrace, her hair tickling at his chin while he rests it atop her head.

 

He smiles at the next thought he has. Words once spoken only to be spoken again.

 

This is how the story ends.

 

_Together or not at all._


End file.
